


shoreline

by bygoneboy



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: EXTREMELY self-indulgent, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Sex, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, My First Work in This Fandom, Post-Canon Fix-It, Sad with a Happy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-02 19:10:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8679985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: In the aftermath of New York's near-scandal, Auror Percival Graves is rescued from the cellar of his own home, having spent months as a prisoner to Gellert Grindelwald. President Picquery, hoping to grant him some relief and a reprieve from the magical and political scene, sends him on a sabbatical of sorts, shipping him off to a small No-Maj town on the upper east coast.There he finds neither relief nor a reprieve, but a young man with a dark past, a familiarity he cannot place, and a loneliness to rival his own.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [береговая линия](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858557) by [grumpymess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpymess/pseuds/grumpymess)
  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [biển hoang](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9570752) by [thegirl_gcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirl_gcat/pseuds/thegirl_gcat)
  * Translation into 中文 available: [Shoreline](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432784) by [garfieldyard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/garfieldyard/pseuds/garfieldyard)



> We’re all lonely for something we don’t know we’re lonely for. How else to explain the curious feeling that goes around feeling like missing somebody we’ve never even met?
> 
> \- David Foster Wallace  
>  
> 
> ...  
>  
> 
> a big gross thank you to [betts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betts/#_=_) and [limes](http://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandlimes/works) for the twitter support + inspo x
> 
>    
> ...

 

I. THE MAN WHO CAME TO NORBOROUGH

***

 

There are two hundred and thirty seven people residing in tiny-twenties-Norborough, a sleepy shelter of cave and cliff and sea that sits very prettily on the coast of Maine, far away from Prohibition nightmares and big city pipe dreams, and among those two hundred and thirty seven everybodies there is exactly one nobody, who introduced himself upon arrival as Percival, and who everyone has collectively decided to call Graves.  
 

He had first appeared a few months ago, and nobody has talked about anything else since. He’d come to town in a smart looking coat and a shiny pair of box-toe Oxfords, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back like a career man, and he had rented out the crumbling abandoned mansion up on the hill, the one that hasn’t been lived in for a decade. The house is far too big for him alone, but he had seemed eager to settle there— had seemed eager to settle in general, as though he had been tired for a terribly long time, and no longer cared where he could put his feet up, as long as they could be put up at all.  
 

The landlord had held an open discussion of him at the mainstreet pub, in the conclusion of the arrangement; the general consensus had been that the man seemed kind and agreeable enough, if a little world-weary, and that was, at first, the most popular and widely accepted diagnosis of his character.  
 

But allegedly, there had been a nervous tremor in his hands as he had signed the lease. And even when he smiles, everyone agrees, he looks rather lost. More than world-weary, he is _odd—_ over the weekend, the grocer had happened to mention the strange weather New York was having as he’d rung up a pound of beef, and Graves had looked positively haunted.  
 

Indisputably, the strangest things about him are the angry, purpled welts spilling secret stories over the flat of his temple, and the backs of his forearms, and disappearing under his collar and coat and tie. How far do the scars go? No one knows. How did he get them? No one knows that, either, and as a matter of fact no one particularly cares to know, as that would rid them of the whole mystery for good, and what use is a stranger if you know what makes them strange in the first place?  
 

There is some vague prying done by those who can’t help themselves. Louise, one of the bakery cashiers, asks him if he’s married, or at least engaged (he’s not, and does not plan to be). Eugene, who runs the little corner-side library, asks him where he’s from (New York, the city, although he was born in Brooklyn and spent a matter of years overseas).  
 

At some point, someone musters up their courage, and asks him why he’s come.  
 

“Oh, you know,” he says— reportedly— rocking back on his heels, rubbing a nervous hand at the scars curled around his neck. “Terrible thing, wasn’t it, the war.”  
 

For the most part, the townspeople decide, they will leave Mr. Graves alone. And Mr. Graves will keep to himself in return. Poor man, they’ll tell the rare tourist, and any passerby who asks. He’s all alone up there, in that big, empty house on the hill.  
 

And to add fuel to their mystical fire:  
 

Terrible thing, wasn’t it?  
 

The war?

 

II. WHAT HE’D MEANT WHEN HE SAID “WAR”

***

 

 _The sea air is doing me good,_ Graves writes to the President, in his first letter. _It rains often, a cleansing effect. I feel almost myself again._  
  


 _Slow down,_ she replies. _Enjoy yourself. Take your time, in coming back.  
_  

 _There is indeed a kind of cure to be had in the province,_ Graves writes to the President in his second letter. _Do tell me how Congress has been running, in my absence.  
_  

She writes back, _L_ _et’s not speak of work— what more can you say of Norborough? It must be lovely there.  
_  

 _This town has nothing to offer me that I cannot find in New York,_ Graves writes to the President in his third letter. _Please, Seraphina. Let me come home.  
_  

 _Percy,_ comes her answer, the sorry black ink letters of his name mocking in their careful precision. _My dear, dear friend, I am sorry—  
_

_I doubt you are ready.  
_  

This is what they had told him:  
 

An escaped criminal, a madman, had infiltrated the Magical Congress of the United States of America wearing his face. The damage done had been catastrophic, and the wizarding community had experienced a close encounter with exposure, but it had all been fixed, they said. No one will remember the No-Maj Senator. No one will remember the Obscurus, the trenches dug through the city streets. They will remember rain, falling gently onto their upturned faces. Rain, and the sun peeking through dark clouds.  
 

This is what Graves will remember:  
 

He had not had time to cry out.  
 

It had happened too fast. The flash of the spell, the bind of his limbs, toppling him to the floor. The blow to the back of his head. He had woken shivering violently in the cellar of his own home, wrapped in chains both magical and physical. A sunken-eyed man with white hair and a thin mustache had set the tip of his wand against his temple, and murmured curses, unforgivable.  
 

Graves had screamed for what felt like hours. Writhed, and begged. In the end he had broken, had divulged more than he should have, the secrets slipping out among the sobs— and then the man had drawn out a small pair of silver scissors from his coat pocket to clip away a few locks of hair from Graves' head. And he had dropped them into a vial, the stench of polyjuice acrid and smothering, and Graves had watched the skin bubble, and the bones twist, until the body and face in front of him had contorted, entirely, into a perfect imitation of Graves himself.  
 

 _You won’t get away with this,_ Graves had said, still weeping, watching his new doppelgänger stretch to his feet, and pocket the vial, and brush out his coattails.  
 

 _You won’t get away with this,_ Gellert Grindelwald had mimicked, speaking with Graves’ voice, and wearing Graves’ face, and then he had went upstairs and out into the waking world to wreak a havoc that Graves could only imagine, shut away in the stale blackness.  
 

He will remember those first few days best, crying out in the dark, pleading for water to soothe his aching throat. He will remember Grindelwald sitting calm and cross-legged across from him, stirring at the potion, reminding him that he is the host to a parasitical plot. Reminding him that he is only still alive because the disguise is of value. He will remember the snip of scissors, the tug of hair. The blood seeping sluggishly from between his cracked lips. The press of his ribs, sticking out of his chest, the empty days of solitary nothingness.  
 

He does not remember his rescue.  
 

He remembers waking up in its aftermath, wrapped in soft white sheets, and thinking, for a moment, that he had passed into some higher realm.  
 

And he will always remember Seraphina’s apologetic expression as she had stood over his hospital bed, and suggested that perhaps Congress had been so readily duped by Grindelwald’s disguise because he had worn Graves’ skin with such frightful ease—  
 

And perhaps because Graves could have worn his, just as easily.  
 

The point is—  
 

He will not remember the rain.  
 

 _I’m going mad,_ he writes, his very words faltering on the page. _All I can think of is the work I should be doing, for those who have no one. I need them, as much as they need me, don’t you understand?  
_

_Aurors don’t retire,_ he writes. _I was supposed to go to my deathbed fighting, I was counting on it.  
_

_To be in a place emptied of magic,_ he writes. _To be the outsider in a sea of sameness.  
_

_It is prison of a different kind.  
_  

(This letter is one he will not send.)

 

III. FIFTY-TWO CENTS AND ANOTHER MYSTERY

***

 

“You had better watch yourself,” says the grocer, leaning cheerfully over the counter when Graves stops in on Saturday morning to pick up a dozen eggs. “There’s a thief in town.”  
 

“Really,” says Graves, adopting an air of mild interest. The store is empty, as the town hasn’t really woken, yet, and so he takes his time browsing through the paper-wrapped meats, wondering if he should bother with fruit, for next week, wondering if it’ll go bad before he’s even a chance to start in on it. In New York, he had never had time for home-cooked meals; he had typically gone out to eat, between the ticking minutes of work and sleep. He has made a bad habit, here, out of forgetting what he’s bought. Most of his fresh foods rot on the counter, or freeze over in the icebox.  
 

He brings the carton up to the counter. “Fifty-two cents,” the grocer tells him, then adds, “It’s some kid, apparently.”  
 

“Who?”  
 

“The thief. Some skinny boy. He’s been by here before, nicked all sorts of things. Last night he had a go at the bakery and Louise got a glimpse of him, before he scampered off.”  
 

“Hmm,” says Graves, frowning as he rummages through his wallet. It’s always been a little difficult for him to remember the specifics of No-Maj currency, and he would prefer not to slip up again and start handing out knuts instead of quarters, thank you very much— _foreign money,_ he had said, the one time it had actually happened. And even though the grocer had nodded and smiled and handed the coins back without a fuss, Graves had discreetly drawn his wand and sent a precautionary suggestion of forgetfulness over his shoulder, as he had left.  
 

“I heard it from Normand,” the grocer says, tapping the side of his nose as though this name-drop will mean something. “Who heard it from Edna, who listened in on the deputy taking a statement from Louise, who was closing the place down when it happened. The kid managed to get hold of three loaves of bread and a whole pan of muffins, and then, _poof—”_ The grocer makes a sweeping, grand gesture, “He vanished.”  
 

Graves gives up on strip-searching his wallet and drops a sizable handful of No-Maj money on the counter, hoping it’s enough. “That’s too bad,” he murmurs as the grocer starts to pick through the coins. “I hope he didn’t cause any damage.” If he did, he thinks, absentmindedly scratching at one of the still-healing scars on his jaw, he’ll simply come by when the sun sets, and fix it himself with a wave of his wand. He’ll do a decent-enough job to get the bakery back in business, but keep the repairs a little shabby, to ward off suspicion. The townspeople will think it a bizarre but generous gift done by an anonymous well-wisher. Nothing miraculous.  
 

There’s a chime as the cash drawer clicks open, and a rattle as the correct amount of change is dropped into the proper slot. “That’s the funny thing, though,” the grocer says, conspiratorially. “When I say vanished— I mean it. There wasn’t any sign of a forced entry. The lock was intact, and the windows haven’t been shattered. And Louise says—” He leans over the counter again, voice dropping low. “She says he just _disappeared._ And then appeared again, outside.”  
 

Graves looks up at this. “Really,” he repeats. But this time, his brow is furrowed, and there’s an uneasy feeling in the pit of his chest.  
 

“Like he went right through the glass,” the grocer says, looking a bit troubled himself. “Just— like magic.”  
 

Graves flinches in the process of scooping the rest of the loose change back into his free palm, and the coins go pinging all over the grocery floor, rolling in ten different directions. “Sorry,” he stammers, stooping to pick them up. “Sorry,” he says again, wincing when he hits his head on the counter coming up. “I— oh, Christ above—”  
 

The dread is roaring in his ears. The grocer’s mouth is moving, smiling uncertainly as he speaks, but Graves can’t seem to hear him, over the hammering of his heart. Something horribly shaken is crawling up his throat, souring on his tongue. He pulls out his wand.  
 

“I am sorry,” he says, caught in panic’s full swing as the grocer’s eyes go round and wide. “It’d just be better if— why did you have to say— oh, damn it, _obliviate—”_

 

IV. MR. GRAVES HAS A PLAN

***

 

There’s a wizard, he thinks, dazed, as he’s walking home on the side of the road, his pulse still drumming out its post-adrenaline in the hollow of his throat. There’s another wizard in Norborough.  
  


A wizard who’s been _stealing,_ of course, and a young one, based on the admittedly vague description, but a wizard no less. What the grocer had described to him sounds like a typical depiction of a beginner’s magic, practiced without intentional thought, provoked in the face of necessity, rather than greed. He imagines an orphan child, frightened and alone. Unable to control the power sparking at his fingertips, mixing in his very blood.  
 

He should inform the President, first and foremost. She’ll send someone upstate to track the boy down, to introduce him to the world in which he truly belongs. They’ll arrange for him to attend one of the northern schools. They’ll deal with it quickly, quietly.  
 

Unless, perhaps—  
 

And he pauses, on the stoop of his front porch, at the thought.  
 

Unless he could do it, himself.  
 

Why shouldn’t he do it himself?  
 

 _For a thousand reasons,_ whispers a shadow in the back of his head, one that wears his own face, and speaks with his own voice. He’s out of commission, he’s emotionally unsteady. He drops No-Maj money on the floor at the mention of his own kind. The President would forbid it, if she knew.  
 

 _But she doesn’t know,_ he reasons, warring with himself. And she wouldn’t need to. Not until it was over and dealt with.  
 

He sees a shameful kaleidoscope of his heart-hungry want, spelled out behind his eyes. He sees himself hand-in-hand with the child, squeezing his shoulder in gentle reassurance as he walks him through Ilvermorny’s gates. He sees the President welcoming him back with open arms, showering him in warm praise. And she would— surely she would— if she could see for herself that he is still of use. Still as competent, as ready and willing as he had been before the— before everything.  
 

All he has to do, he thinks, crossing the porch feeling ten times lighter, is _find_ the boy.  
 

Find him, and make him listen.  
 

And then both their salvations will be at hand.

 

V. CREDENCE

***

 

A storm strikes abruptly that afternoon, and lingers long into the evening. At the first strike of lightning Graves hurries about the house shutting windows, then mops up the wooden sills that have already gone slick with rain. He throws a blanket over his owl’s cage, to keep her from screeching, stokes a small hearth fire to warm the parlor, and puts the kettle on for tea with a lazy wave of his wand. Then he wanders out onto the porch to watch the first wave of fog wash out over the dark sky.  
  


Despite his apprehensive words to Seraphina, the view is a spectacular one. The house is set high enough to showcase the Atlantic with the seascape it deserves, endless miles of ocean, wind-carried whispers of breakers and foam— it would steal any man’s breath away, even blackened by storm clouds. Lightning strikes, and Graves watches the thin tendrils of light crack across the open water, waves rearing high to meet them. Lightning strikes again, and when he blinks back the spots of brightness from his eyes—  
 

He is no longer alone.  
 

There is someone in his yard. A young man, cowering not ten feet away. His shoulders are hunched to his ears, and trembling violently. His skin is pale in the downpour, his dark hair wet and plastered against his skull. There is a package in his arms, cradled to his chest the way one would carry a newborn.

From the kitchen, Graves hears the kettle begin its shrill whistle, steam piping from the spout. In front of him the man sways on his feet, looking up toward the porch with a sort of wild desperation, as though on the verge of a plea.  
 

Then his expression flickers. And his eyes widen, and he stumbles back, terror plain on his face. “Not you,” he cries, his voice raw and high over the roll of thunder. “Oh, God, please, not you!”  
 

Graves is close enough to see his eyes roll up, exposing the whites; he is close enough to scramble off of the porch and close ready arms around him, before he hits the ground. And then he is very close indeed, close enough to see the chunks of shredded flesh torn from the young man’s side, and close enough feel the wet heat of blood soaking into his shirt.  
 

And the storm carries on overhead, and the rain cascades down in ice-gray sheets, and the kettle’s whistle crescendos into a scream, the frothing water spewing and boiling over until the flame at its base is extinguished altogether.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a quick note, because there's apparently some debate on credence's age? i assumed it was confirmed that he wasn't a child when tina said, "but he's not a child"...thoughts?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’ve taken some liberties with the idea of the obscurus, i hope you don't mind! i like the notion that it’s something that’ll always stay attached to its host, whether it’s been subdued/controlled or not.

  

I. THINGS ONE SHOULD REFRAIN FROM DOING WHILE ON SABBATICAL

  
***

 

His body is cold and limp in the circle of Graves’ arms, holding him close to his chest as he carries him up onto the porch and out of the freezing rain. The front door is thrown open with a hastily-cast spell and a flick of his fingers; another spell sends everything on the kitchen table crashing haphazardly to the floor, making room for Graves to lay him on his back on the table-top.

 

The stranger is wearing a tattered black coat, muddied and heavy with rain. Graves wrestles him out of it, balls it up and tosses it to the side. The shirt underneath is thin, once white but blood-soaked scarlet, now. The worst of it seems to be at his left hip, traveling up toward the joint of his shoulder. _“Diffindo,”_ Graves murmurs, touching the tip of his wand to the shirt collar, careful not to let his wet fingers slip as he slices down through the fabric, peeling it away from the marred skin.

 

The damage there is gruesome. Entire chunks of flesh have been carved away, torn deep in a nonsensical, vicious pattern— but Graves has only to rest eyes on the wound for a moment before the answer becomes clear. He’s seen this before, on young wizards and witches who tried to apparate before they were ready, or capable. Splinching, leaving part of themselves behind as their bodies were torn in two different directions; that— this— is what he’s dealing with.

 

He takes the stairs two at a time, his heart beating fast. But his hands are steady, as he drops to his knees to drag the steamer trunk out from under his bed, and his mind is clear.

 

This is what he does best.

 

This is what he’s good for.

 

He flips up the locks, slides out the top drawer and finds nothing but vitamix. The next casing is lined with crushed herbs, pain relievers and antiseptics; he stuffs a handful of everything in his trouser pockets, then rifles through the third drawer, hissing curses as bottles clink and rattle— dittany, good, he’ll need that. And the rest of his murtlap essense— tucking the bottles under his arm, he kicks the trunk away and hurries back down the stairs, skidding a little over the wood-smooth floor in his haste.

 

The first thing he does is clean the wound, with a clean cloth and warm water. Then he sterilizes the area, and reaches for the dittany— a few drops at a time, slowly, now, “Easy,” he murmurs to himself, and to his patient, who groans a little at the sound of his voice, quietly and in the back of his throat. Hacked-away flesh sizzles as the potion seeps into the lacerations, sheets of mangled skin sloughing to the floor, fresh shiny skin taking its place, slowly sealing him together again.

 

By the time the knitting process is over, Graves’ hands are soaked red. He passes his raised wand over the young man’s body, siphoning away the blood that has gathered there.

 

And then at last he really sees him: the choppy cut of his dark hair that fringes over his brow, his hollowed cheeks, the thin frame of his chest. Bruised shadows, painted under closed eyes. His mouth, badly chapped and gently parted, and jaw, prickled with uneven, awkward stubble.

 

Despite his visible exhaustion, and the faint outline of his ribs against his skin, he is— striking. To say the least. And young, but far from the child Graves had pictured.

 

The realization comes slowly, falling into place as the patter of rain batters steadily against the windowpanes:

 

There is no sign of a wand on the thief, yet he had managed to apparate.

 

It had gone poorly, yes, but he had done it. Wandless apparition isn’t unheard of, but it does pose enough of a risk that not even Graves himself would attempt it casually—

 

This is not a case of beginner’s magic.

 

The rest of the night passes in near-silent stillness, the only sounds in the room the soft gentle pop of the dying embers in the parlor hearth, and the quiet plunk of pinkened water that drips from the damp bloody rags into the bucket beneath the table. Thunder rolls gently across the sky for an hour more, but for the most part the storm has blown clean through, leaving the cliffside dark and the sea soothed. Graves dresses the tender wounds with meticulous care, not wanting to rub them raw again; by the time he has finished tying off the last of the bandages, draping an old afghan over the young man’s unconscious body, it is late to the point of early, and his eyelids are drooping.

 

He almost forgets about the package— the one the stranger had so tightly clung to, dropped in the frenzy. He finds it lying at the edge of the porch when he goes out into the yard, the brown paper soggy with rainwater. The wrapping falls away easily in the dim light of the kitchen, peeling back to reveal a chewed-on loaf of bread, a bundle of what looks to be dried fruit, and one of the stolen muffins the grocer had mentioned. As it is, the storm has rendered it inedible, and Graves is about to toss the whole parcel when his fingers snag on a thin chain.

 

Some sort of pendant.

 

Tucked in the bottom of the wrappings, cool to the touch. It’s shaped in a thin triangle and struck through with a silver bar and a circle— frowning, he weighs it in his hand, an eerie familiarity prickling at the back of his mind.

 

He lifts it closer to the light. Huddled under the afghan, the stranger stirs, as though sensing its presence, and sighs, brow creased in little ripples of relief, and Graves thinks, _Oh, Merlin’s beard, Percy—_

_What have you gotten yourself into now?_

 

   
II. WHAT HE HAS GOTTEN HIMSELF INTO NOW  
 

***

 

He sleeps fitfully, and does not remember his dreams.

 

In the morning he startles awake to find the young man still breathing, curled up and sleeping deeply. He gets to his feet as quietly as he can and shuffles into the kitchen, rubbing the crick from the joint of his neck and shoulder. Outside the sun has started to spill its green-gold light over the ocean; the storm has left the cliffside pines fragrant and freshly green.

 

He empties the copper kettle of last night’s stale water and dumps in a few heavy spoonfuls of coffee grounds instead. The stove flame is lit with a sleepy command, the kettle topped off with fresh water. He fishes out a pot to thicken oatmeal in, settling into routine, and the coffee has just begun to boil when he hears the gasp from the far side of the room, followed by a loud thud, and a half-stifled cry.

 

The stranger has rolled off the table in his sleep and is now struggling to stand, swaying on his feet when he manages it; he’s faced away from Graves, his slender shoulders bared to the cold morning air, and shifting under the bandages as he tugs fiercely at the door handle. When it refuses to budge, he slams both open palms up against it— then his forehead, twice, in quick succession, whimpering in a hopeless, frantic way.

 

“I’ve sealed it with magic,” says Graves, leaning a little against the stove to watch this unfold. “You’d have to know the right spell, if you wanted to open it again.”

 

At the sound of his voice— and he curses himself silently, for not thinking to speak more softly— the stranger seizes up as though struck.

 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Graves says, gentling his tone the way he sometimes does when soothing his owl’s ruffled feathers. “That was quite a feat you managed, apparating the way you did— although I would advise against doing it again.”

 

His words are met with silence. The stranger’s shoulders quake with every breath.

 

“Why don’t you turn around,” he tries.

 

“No,” says the stranger, a shudder that has nothing to do with cold rippling up from the base of his spine. “Please, no.”

 

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Look at me.”

 

“No, no, I won’t.”

 

“Come on, now,” says Graves, more sharply, his frustration showing. “I’m not too keen on having an entire conversation with the back of your head.”

 

The stranger’s hands curl into fists. Then uncurl again, slowly, as though preparing for something.

 

And when he faces Graves at last, a darkness comes with him.

 

At first Graves thinks it’s the presence of another storm, fast-moving, sucking the light from the room. But when his eyes adjust he realizes that the sky outside is bright and baby-blue; the black-ink shadows are coming from the stranger himself, a stain of hateful energy spreading from his bare arms to pool at the corners of the room, climbing like vines towards the ceiling.

 

“Oh—”

 

His breath leaves him in a rush, fumbling. He steps away from the stove and comes closer, hypnotized by it, the magnitude of the magic, “Oh,” he says again, softer.

 

He has never seen an Obscurial before, not in person. The photographs of the creature in New York had been blurry; the real thing, he finds, has a pulsing, shifting beauty no darkroom could replicate. At its center its host is trembling, a marionette on unraveling strings, unshed tears glinting at the corners of his eyes, his mouth pressed in an unsteady line.

 

He has a feral look to him, Graves thinks. Half-broken but not quite tame, hackles raised but wounded. It’s the look of someone who has been driven into a corner all his life. Beaten to submission too many times to count— like the shore-gulls with broken wings, rearing away but unable to flee, irreparable.

 

“You should sit down,” says Graves, “before you faint.”

 

“No,” says the Obscurial, although his voice is weak, and his words have started to come in wavering, unsteady bursts. “I don’t— need your help.”

 

“You’ll bloody up your bandages, if you strain yourself.” He can already see a small ribbon of red at his waist, slowly tarring the clean wrap of fabric. “Don’t be afraid,” he says, nodding toward the chair he’d slept in, his blood-stained waistcoat still hanging over the back. “Go on, sit down.”

 

The stranger closes his eyes. Another shuddering sort of breath passes through him.

 

He does as Graves asks.

 

The shadow follows him like a funeral march, dragged into the casket of his wire-line frame. He is immeasurably smaller without the beast at his back, dead-eyed and hopeless. “What do you want from me,” he whispers, when Graves takes the seat across from him. There is a miserable finality to the way he says it, as though he has just signed over his soul, and knows it.

 

“I want you to rest.”

 

“And then?”

 

“Recover,” says Graves, not understanding. “You’re most likely still in shock, I’m not sure how much blood you lost in the splinching—”

 

“Where’s my necklace,” says the Obscurial, looking almost angry. “The one you gave me— I want it back.”

 

“The one—” He blinks, feeling for the sharp edge of it in his pocket. “The one _I_ gave—?”

 

The Obscurial’s expression twists as Graves holds up the pendant in question, reaching for it with a trembling hand. “Please,” he says, “please. You said it was mine, for me—”

 

“I said—?” Graves repeats, watching as he snatches it from his hand, clutching it to his chest.

 

And the pieces fall together.

 

He remembers.

 

Stale breath on his cheeks, as the man wearing his face had lifted his chin with a cruel finger, pressing his wand into the bruise at his temple. The glint of metal in a black room. The suspended swing of the chain around his neck:

 

_You won’t get away with this._

 

Triangle, circle, strike.

 

“Tell me,” says Graves, faintly. “What else did I say?”

 

 

III. INTERLUDE  
 

***

How do you atone for something you have never done?

 

How do you forgive someone who has never wronged you?

 

Separating yourself from a man who slipped so easily into your skin that nobody even noticed; separating the man whose skin was worn from the man who had taken it—

 

Where do you start?

 

This is what Graves tells him:

 

A madman had infiltrated the Magical Congress of the United States of America wearing his face. And the damage done had been catastrophic, and the wizarding community had experienced a close encounter with exposure.

 

There was a rescue, he says, and rain, although he doesn’t remember it.

 

They had fixed everything, he says. Almost. They hadn’t tried too hard to fix him.

 

This is what Graves learns:

 

His name is Credence, and the last time a man called him a freak _,_ he killed him.

 

And the last time his mother raised his own belt against him, he killed her, too.

 

And in the same way that she had not really been his mother, the not-Auror not-Graves had not really been his friend— but sometimes at night Credence still holds the pendant close to his chest and whispers things, secret things, promises he had made, and never pursued. They had sounded holy, between his lips. He had healed Credence’s hands with a single touch and Credence had thought, _save me, save me, make me clean._

 

He’s dangerous, he tells Graves, he’s not right.

 

Graves, remembering the flicker of the wounded shadow, flame-like, velvet-black against the white kitchen walls, shakes his head. “Not dangerous,” he says. “Just different.”

 

Credence smiles, close-lipped and lopsided.

 

He had used to say that, too.

 

   
IV. NEEDLE AND THREAD  
 

***

 

The wounds heal slowly, and as they do, Credence moves into the guest bedroom on the first floor, adjacent to the parlor.

 

He dresses in spare sets of Graves’ clothes, as the only pair of shirt and trousers he’d owned had been the bloodied ones on his back. He looks a little odd, shuffling around in sweaters three sizes too big, and it’s a strange arrangement in its entirety, sheltering the very victim his doppelgänger had preyed upon. But Credence doesn’t have the means to travel and stay healthy at the same time, and Graves is worried he’ll infect the wound without proper care—

 

And they have both been subject to the same brand of suffering, of loneliness, the same prying and preaching of people who could never understand.

 

Credence never asks why half the mirrors in the house are covered with sheets, or why sometimes Graves’ hands shake so badly that he can’t shave himself without nicking his chin. Graves never asks why Credence startles so damn always, or why he skirts the corners of rooms at night. They bear the same burden and Graves can’t help but soak in the knowledge of that, bathing helplessly in their shared relief— he doesn’t believe in fate but he thinks, maybe, Credence was led to his doorstep by some miracle of chance.

 

He thinks, maybe, Credence is a miracle himself.

 

His owl flies off on Thursday morning and returns Friday evening with a fresh-print issue of _The New York Ghost,_ a pointless humdrum letter from Seraphina, and the stockpile of antiseptics he’d sent for in the first place. The letter is tossed aside to frustrate him later, _The Ghost’s_ front page is scanned briefly; then Graves takes the new bottle of murtlap essence in hand, and sits Credence down on the edge of his porcelain tub.

 

“I’m afraid it might scar,” Graves tells him, crouching down to spread the solution over his side— stupid, as if another scar would matter. As if he didn’t have reminders marring his own body, as if the belted lines cut across Credence’s back and forearms didn’t count.

 

“I don’t mind,” says Credence. “If you hadn’t— done all this, for me— I’d’ve been dead by now.”

 

His skin, even still-healing, is smooth and warm under his fingertips. “I did what any half-decent man would. Doesn’t make me special.”

 

“It does to me,” Credence answers quietly, murmuring this with his eyes fixed on the tile-floor and his bare foot brushing against Graves’ ankle, and Graves goes warm in the face, flustered. Foolish.

 

For many reasons he doesn’t quite understand, Credence seems to have a definite way of making him feel a fool.

 

“I’ll expect you’ll be well enough to travel in a week or so,” he says, at a loss for anything else.

 

“Yes— right. This is only— until I’m better.” He sounds as though he is attempting to convince himself of something. Or convince Graves.

 

He stands, brushing his palms off on his knees. “I can send you off with some of the potions I’ve been treating you with, they’ll help with most injuries. And some floo powder, in case you run into trouble again. You’d always be welcome here, Credence.”

 

Credence swallows. Graves’ eyes catch on the jerk of his throat. “Mr. Graves—”

 

“Percy.”

 

“Percy,” he hesitates, an ocean of uncertainty in his voice. Questions, Graves has learned, are difficult for him; he would prefer to answer _yes_ and _no_ and never have to ask for anything at all. “Would you— teach me?” he says, at last, so quiet that Graves has to lean close to hear. “Before I go.”

 

“Teach you?”

 

“Magic,” says Credence, beautifully bold, thrilled at his own nerve— still in the aftermath, his fingernails dig crescent-moon tracks into the palms of his hands. “I’ll go. When I’m better. But I thought, maybe, if you wanted, if you could show me—”

 

Graves raises a hand. The bandages that have fallen away float into the air to twist around each other, strips of fabric winding and folding until the wounds are bound and bandaged again, snug against his side. Wandless, wordless; Credence’s eyes are wide.

 

“All you had to do,” Graves answers, in the wake of Credence’s open-faced wonder, “was ask.”

 

 

V. A STUDY IN DOMESTIC LIFE  
 

***

 

They start with the simplest of spells. Unlocking doors, making cushions fly. _Lumos_ , says Graves, and the bulb above the kitchen sink glows bright. _Nox_ , he adds, and the light flickers out.

 

Credence holds Graves’ wand in his hand like it is made of glass and gold. _Lumos,_ he says—

 

And summons a spark that flares into flame, and a shattered bulb.

 

Graves takes him out to the ocean shore, down to the boulder-lined beach, and sets up old bottles along stacks of driftwood. They practice there, sending spells out to enchant their makeshift targets— _geminio, accio, engorgio._

Despite Credence’s best efforts, the bottles rarely budge.

 

He _is_ a man of magic. Graves has seen that first-hand, in the darkness that moves with Credence when he’s let himself unwind, like a shadow unhinged. That elegant ink-stretch of black, yearning to be set free— if only he would reach for it, instead of locking it up.

 

It isn’t that he’s incapable, it’s that he’s afraid.

 

Graves doesn’t know how to convince him otherwise.

 

The days pass in a foggy sort of maelstrom; by the end of another week they have their first true success. After an hour of careful coaching and theory, Graves turns over his wand as he always does, and Credence sets his jaw, and clenches his teeth and, in one desperate lash and the right words, sends one of the bottles floating a foot in the air.

 

He drops the bottle— and his concentration— almost immediately upon realizing what he’s managed, dizzy with his excitement. Graves is grinning so hard his cheeks hurt with it. When he reaches out and clasps Credence’s shoulder, Credence leans into it, into him, and he feels it afterward, for a long time, warm where he has touched him, hot in his chest and gut, like coals have settled there.

 

Cresting the wave of his success Credence goes on to practice for a half hour longer, scrubbing his sleeve over the sheen of sweat that starts to bead across his forehead. His hair is growing long, Graves thinks, watching him, he’ll need to have it cut, soon enough. They’ll have to go into town. Or Graves could do it, himself. As if he’s caught the stray thought, Credence reaches up with his free hand, and tucks a sweat-stuck strand behind one ear.

 

The coals in Graves’ belly burn white.

 

“What’s your wand made of?” asks Credence, as they begin the climb back up to the cliff-side house. He sounds tired, but looks the happiest Graves has ever seen him. “Is it just— wood?”

 

“A bit more to it than that,” Graves says. “Mine is ebony. And the core is hair—”

 

“Hair?”

 

“From the wampus cat—”

 

“Cat hair!”

 

“A noble beast,” chides Graves, mostly teasing. “But rare, so you couldn’t make your own, if that’s what you’re thinking. Wandcraft is a delicate art— it’s the wand that chooses the wizard, I’ve heard.”

 

“I don’t know, I don’t mind. I like yours.”

 

“You don’t want one of your own?” he asks. “There’s a craftsman I know— Johannes, he’s in Vermont now, I think— we could arrange for you to go down sometime next week, and look at what he has.”

 

“I like yours,” says Credence, again, softer, and settles the matter.

 

The President’s last letter is still lying on his writing desk, when they walk through the front door, damp with sweat and late-noon sea-spray. But Graves doesn’t write his reply, doesn’t bother with the paragraphs of testament to his dependability. He spends his sunset hours transfiguring his owl into a feathery gramophone, instead, and hears Credence laugh, half stifled and delighted, spring water bubbling from parched rock.

 

The conjured music is interchanged with indignant hoots, but Graves takes Credence by the arm. “You know how to dance?”

 

“No,” he protests, laughter still caught around the soft lines of his mouth.

 

“I suppose I’ll have to teach you that, too, then.” He adjusts Credence’s hands, clasping one in his own, settling the other on his shoulder. “One foot back, like this— now follow, and turn—”

 

The gramophone-owl puffs up slightly, shedding angry feathers, and Credence snorts, and bites his lip. But he’s getting the hang of it, with Graves guiding him into each step, drifting clumsily through the parlor, and they manage their way through two more songs before Credence starts to go drowsy. Practically nodding off against him, but they stay swaying, shuffling in little circles. Leaning into each other, Credence’s breath warm at his throat.

 

In the morning, the bandages come off for good.

 

Tomorrow, Credence tells him, winding the pendant chain tight around his fingers. He’ll go tomorrow, tomorrow.

 

And tomorrow comes.

 

And goes.

 

And keeps coming, and going.

 

And Credence doesn’t go anywhere.

 

 

VI. INTERLUDE (CONT.) 

***

 

Sometimes, Graves dreams of a man wearing his own face. And his face smiles with too-sharp teeth, taunting him with soft curses that slice open his skin and singe the tatters of his clothes. He smells burning flesh, tastes blood-thick iron, and all the while he watches himself laugh amidst the snip of scissors and stench of polyjuice.

 

Other times, he dreams of the shoreline.

 

Bedrock slick with seawater, pools spilling over at high tide. He dreams of the taste of salt in his mouth. And then tasting someone else’s mouth, lips chapped and trembling. He dreams of taking off his coat and spreading it out over the bank, and spreading Credence out, too—

 

Because it is Credence, dark hair tousled over his forehead, smooth pale thighs falling open around his hips, and for the first time in years, Graves wakes rutting against the mattress, gasping and achingly hard. He bites down on his fist as his sleep-slurred vision registers the shadows of his room into shapes, willing himself soft again. But the dream is too fresh in his mind, and every shift of the sheets sends a fierce current of desire through him, and at last he turns over and takes his cock in hand, squeezing his eyes shut as he strokes himself in frantic fast pulls.

 

He imagines the way they would fall together. The way they would rut, leaking and slick, their breath shared, mingling. He imagines taking Credence into his mouth. Swallowing him down, working lips slowly around him until he moans, stammering out desperate pleas of his name—

 

He comes groaning against his fist, and sags boneless and seed-slicked over the sheets.

 

He doesn’t know what Credence dreams of.

 

He doesn’t ask.

 

 

VII. CREDENCE, PART TWO

***

 

“No, no,” says Graves, “that’s all wrong— like this, you see?”

 

They are back on the rocky beach, the bottles lined up like little soldiers. Graves mimics the wand movement with his open hand and Credence watches closely, jaw set stubbornly, dark eyes flashing, his brow furrowing with frustration.

 

“Not so fast on the downswing,” Graves says, repeating the motion again, a little slower. “You see? And curl your wrist in, here— right, give it another try.”

_“Reduc—”_ says Credence, stops halfway through. Swallows, clears his throat.

 

“Go ahead,” Graves repeats, encouraging. “Concentrate.”

 

“ _Reducto.”_

Nothing happens.

 

 _“Reducto,”_ says Credence again, his voice thinning, the gesture sharper. The bottle stirs a little. Tips to one side, then rattles back to its original stance.

 

Credence looks up miserably and Graves doesn’t need him to speak to know what he’s thinking: that perhaps Grindelwald was right. That everyday magic will always be out of reach, right along with the acceptance he yearns for. That perhaps when the Obscurus was crippled—

 

Some part of Credence was crippled along with it.

 

And that, Graves decides, is quite enough of that.

 

He does it almost without thinking, the flat of his palm sliding around to the back of Credence’s neck, smoothing down the rigid notches of his spine as though he can stroke the fear right out of him, with every pass of his hand. “Credence,” he says, murmuring this into Credence’s ear, feeling him shiver, “you’ve a right to be frustrated but listen to me, you’re improving.”

 

“I—” says Credence, breathlessly, clutching at his wand with a white-knuckled hand. “Yes, oh, okay."

 

“Most of us begin to learn at eleven.” Graves rubs his thumb up over the back of Credence’s neck, over the short bristles of hair at the nape of his neck. “You kept this magic contained for over twenty years— imagine what you’ll be able to do, when all that potential is released.”

 

“Potential,” mutters Credence. He's leaning back against Graves’ shoulder.

 

“You tore New York in half,” says Graves. Almost holding him. “You razed that city to the ground, concentrate—”

 

 _“Reducto!”_ says Credence, the word bursting out of him—

 

The bottle explodes.

 

Glass rains down across the stone shore, the sound soft and musical. For just a moment, the world is impossibly still, and silent. Graves’ wand trembles in Credence's hand, thrust out in front of him.

 

Then Credence turns toward him, and hope dawns in his eyes like the sun over the sea.

 

“Good God,” Graves exhales, breathless. He is pressed so close that he had felt it, felt the shadow ripple through Credence’s body, into his wand arm, snaking around his waist. “That’s it, Credence.”

 

“Did I—”

 

“Yes—”

 

“That was—”

 

“You,” says Graves, “all you, I swear it.”

 

His hand is still on the back of Credence’s neck. Credence is grinning, eyes shining, looking at Graves like he’s hung the sun. “That,” Credence says, “just then— you sounded like him.”

 

 _Him,_ and the joy snuffs out, like the hiss of a wet match.

 

So _he_ has taken and tainted this, too.

 

Credence’s smile ebbs, mind catching up with mouth. He shakes his head, fast, shrinking into his borrowed coat like he can hide there. “I’m— sorry. I shouldn’t have said— it’s just, he always— he would— nevermind.”

 

“No,” says Graves, bitterly, “tell me, what did he do?” He knows he must sound angry, to Credence’s ears, and he doesn’t mean to speak so sharply, but he is tired, so tired of the poison that seems to spread into everything, “Tell me. Did he spend all night sewing you back together? Did he teach you a single spell, did he—”

 

“Stop,” says Credence.

 

And suddenly he is pressed against him. And reaching out, one cold hand wrapping around his wrist.

 

“He did this,” Credence says, reaching up with his other hand to skim his thumb along the line of Graves’ jaw. He does it with a methodical practice, part of some routine; Graves’ chest feels too-tight, iron-cuffed. “This,” Credence adds, voice faltering, his fingertips stroking along the back of Graves’ neck, swooning forward so that his breath stirs the slow-fading gray at Graves’ temple, “this.”

 

“Did he ever—” Graves starts.

 

Then breaks off.

 

Credence turns his head. They are so close that Graves can count his eyelashes, see the spread of his pupils, dark and unreadable.

 

“Did he ever—” Graves repeats. His voice doesn’t sound like his own, strained to the verge of cracking.

 

“No,” Credence says.

 

“But you— wanted him to?”

 

Credence closes his eyes.

 

“You wanted him to.”

 

“Yes,” Credence says.

 

The pulse of blood roars in Graves’ ears. Or maybe it’s the ocean, spraying up soft breakers against the shore, rushing in and out like deep watery breaths, counting down the heartbeats between them.

 

Credence opens his eyes again.

 

“Credence,” Graves says. “Do you want me to—”

 

“Oh, God,” Credence blurts, like the breath has been punched from him, like he’s standing on a thousand-foot-precipice with one foot already over the edge, and then he’s lurching toward Graves with his fingers curled tight in the loose tie around Graves’ neck, and—

 

He tastes— so good. Overwhelmingly good, a little like the butterbeer they had shared on the porch stoop this morning, a little like fear, sea-salt, brittle and cold. And he feels hungry and taut and heart-wrenchingly human, his hands fluttering up to hold Graves’ face between them, fingers twisting in his hair. His mouth opens up a little as they kiss, letting loose a little gasping breath; Graves sucks gently on his lower lip, then his tongue, and Credence whimpers against him.

 

When they break apart from each other Graves is panting, shamefully hard in his trousers, hot under his skin, his thoughts spinning out on the euphoric edge of something wild. Credence’s lips are reddened, spit-wet and swollen, he looks awfully wild himself, sleek hair mussed in the places where Graves had grabbed hold of it, and pulled.

 

He looks like he wants to do it again.

 

He tries, he goes up on the tips of his toes, tipping in toward Graves with his eyes half-closed. “Credence,” Graves says, hoarse with it, with everything, putting a hand out between them to hold him back, “Credence, wait, wait, I’m not— him.”

 

“What?” says Credence, still breathless, and sort of pleasure-dazed. He pets at the back of Graves’ neck, his breath puffing little white clouds between them.

 

Graves feels it like sickness, churning bitterly in his gut. _I’m not him,_ he wants to say, _I don’t want to be, do you understand? I look at you and see something brilliant, and beautiful._

_I think you look at me and see another man._

 

The words lodge in his throat, snagged anchors on dead coral. His mouth opens on dead air, on nothing at all, and in the stretch of his silence Credence shrinks back, Credence shudders.

 

And Graves sees the panic in his eyes, and the decision that follows, in the beat before the shore goes dark.

 

“Wait,” he says, reaching for him too late, “I didn’t mean, don’t—”

 

But Credence dissolves under Graves’ hands like foam over sand, the shadow of him writhing grief-stricken into the sky, leaving behind only inky ribbons of black ghost, and the taste of him on Graves’ tongue.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dicks out for the poor sod that finds a random chunk of splinched credence lying in the middle of norborough


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> over the past week there were some beautiful songs recommended to me that really fit this fic: [persephoning](http://persephoning.tumblr.com/) recommended [no harm by boxer rebellion,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mzWfTVwTCSo) and an anon recommended [skimming stone by seafret.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgpaLHoAtPM) they’re both very soft and beautiful, check them out!
> 
> [the-night-painter](https://the-night-painter.tumblr.com/) drew an incredible rendition of a scene from this chapter that you can find [here](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/post/154963135757/the-night-painter-from-shoreline-by-bygoneboy), and [shuerrleshirley](http://shuerrleshirley.tumblr.com/) sketched a beautiful portrait of shoreline-inspired-graves [here.](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com/post/154981389917/shuerrleshirley-graves-feels-it-like-sickness) i honestly don't deserve you guys xx
> 
> [this edit](http://quicksilverys.tumblr.com/post/154215933514/credence-graves-says-do-you-want-me-to) was also made by [quicksilverys](http://quicksilverys.tumblr.com), i almost cried okay it’s perfect and means everything to me right now
> 
> thank you all so much for reading, your comments are keeping my heart warm in this -2°F weather

 

I. ANOMOLY

***

 

There’s a shadow over Norborough.

 

The deputy sees it first, from behind the half-drawn shades of his office window. Then the grocer, startled eyes turned skyward in the middle of closing shop. It’s a black sort of tumbling mass, cast high over the forest-edge pines but below the low-hanging clouds that promise rain; it’s a spread of void color no one can seem to explain, creeping out and curling in on itself like a beast that can’t steel itself to strike. When at last it plummets it leaves a wounded trail, like the billowing engine smoke of a bomber shot from the sky, and the remnants linger in the foggy air, a beaten track that leads to the house on the hill, cliff-shackled still, and dark, and quiet.

 

It was just the weather, someone will say, later. A meteorite, says someone else. And maybe one of them should go up and see if everything’s all right, on the off-chance that, you know, just in case.

 

But for reasons no one really understands, they don’t.

 

They close their shutters against it, instead, and lock their doors. Something is happening that has nothing to do with them, something too immense for them to understand, or to even begin to want to.

 

Besides—

 

Didn’t they say they’d leave Percival Graves alone?

 

 

II. WE NEED TO TALK ABOUT CREDENCE  
  
***

 

The Obscurus has left thick trenches in the stony sand, the ground dug out and torn up in every place it touched the shore. Graves follows the wake of it as it vanishes over the edge of the bluff, his heart in his throat, scrambling up the cliffside path and praying that it’ll be Credence he’ll find at the top.

 

The fact of the matter is this:

 

Credence loves him for someone he has desperately tried to convince himself he is not.

 

Credence loves him for the face he’s shared with a criminal, a killer. Credence loves him for the way he talks sometimes, hungry and heated, Credence loves—

Credence _loves_ him.

 

Because he’s reminded of another man, he warns himself, swallowing back the grief chained to the thought, yanking the heel of his boot out of the quick-sinking mud. It isn’t his fault, isn’t Credence’s fault.

 

How could it be?

 

When Graves risks that same reminder with every glimpse of his reflection?

 

The house’s windows are inky-dark, when he reaches the top of the cliff; he crosses through the front door with Credence's name and a thousand pleas readied between his lips, and finds the walls inch-thick in an ever-shifting sand of black. “Credence!” he shouts, tunnel-vision, hastening past the foyer, “Credence, listen to me—”

 

There’s a crash from the kitchen. He stumbles back in time for the whirlwind of Credence’s shadow to hurtle past him and into the parlor, bleeding nightmare-black. Rampaging in what seems like senseless chaos, overturning tables and unearthing chairs until Graves braces himself in the doorway, and finds himself facing—

 

_No, no, oh, God—_

Every mirror in the house, uncovered.

 

Cast in a haphazard circle, a psychomanteum. A fairy ring of reflections facing him like ghosts, a long-dead corpse in scattered counterfeit.

 

Graves backs away on instinct, trips over himself at the flash of his face— pale— his eyes—wide—

 

And learns what it is like to be truly at someone’s mercy, between the heartbeats of a long, still spans of breath, hanging time heavy between them. The eye of a hurricane, of Credence’s storm, whirl-pooling around him in broad, dark strokes; Credence’s shape flickers at the center, betwixt him and the hearth, milky-white eyes and the slant of fingers caught tight in the fabric of the last sheet, hung over the mantel.

 

“Credence,” his voice is hoarse, pleading, panic-heady, “please, don’t—”

 

The sheet comes away.

 

Then shreds, in the blur of his shadow.

 

Little scraps of fabric flutter to the floor in its aftermath; the mirrors flare bright in the setting sun, sinking over the ridge of the western horizon.

 

Graves doesn’t look.

 

“You keep them covered because sometimes you think it’s him,” says Credence.

 

The Obscurus has drawn back, peeling away from the walls to pool at his feet and cloak him like a veil, still shifting and curling around him. His voice is cut up, shaken; Graves sees the tracks of tears dripping at his chin, sees red-rimmed eyes, raw at the corners. Sees the sliver of his own reflection, haunting every looking-glass. Surrounded by the empty shells of himself and the man he’d worked so hard to forget, twined into one, inseparable. Familiar eyes gleaming from the cavern of his own face, ropes long-since cut still rubbing the skin of his wrists raw.

 

“You look at me and see him, too,” he says, words clumped together in the hollow of his throat. “Sometimes.”

 

Saying it aloud should feel like less of an accusation, and more of a confirmation. But in the face of it Credence holds his gaze, eyes wet but dark, and demanding. “Why can’t you work anymore?”

 

“The President,” Graves’ voice cracks, throat thick, going dizzy. “She doesn’t— and Congress, they don’t think I should—”

 

“Because she didn’t notice,” Credence answers in his stead, “because he turned into you, and nobody noticed, did they.”

 

Graves doesn’t look, his breath coming frantic and shallow. Can’t look, too afraid to.

 

“He played you so well—” Credence steps carefully, floorboards creaking softly beneath his feet as he closes the distance, his shadow chasing after him, caught around his shoulders. “And I thought he _was,_  please, don’t you think it’s possible?”

 

“I don’t— what are you saying?”

 

“That I thought he was you! And what if all along, who he was pretending to be— what if that was what I wanted from the beginning, before I ever knew—”

 

“What are you saying, Credence?”

 

“That I _needed_ you!” Credence cries, words torn like it hurts to admit, bare-hearted and faltering and almost angry, the way he’d demanded the pendant that first day, air dew-damp, wound blood-wet. “I needed you and he knew it, but he wasn’t real enough, he wasn’t _you,_ do you understand—?”

 

He’s close enough to touch. To taste, again, and God—

 

Now that Graves knows what it’s like—

 

Credence’s hand stretches out, curls against his waistcoat. Falls open like the orchids that bloom only when the sun sinks low, his fingers spreading until the flat of his palm splays over his heart.

 

“You can’t imagine,” Credence says, faint, and trembling. “What it’s like to find you— to have you again, only real—”

 

A wounded, half-swallowed sound escapes the press of Graves’ lungs. Like he’s been shot away, like Credence has slipped something unforgivable straight between his ribs, and before he can stop himself he’s crumpling. Caving into the waiting net of Credence’s body, Credence’s arms shoring up around him, holding him. Holding all of him, while the blur of their reflections soften, and melt into shapes and shadows in the fast-fading light of the mirrors.

 

 

III. SWAN SONG

***

 

He doesn’t know how long they stay there in the parlor dark, the sun vanished behind the tall pines. For what could be hours, for eternity, Graves thinks; a sliver of it, anyway.

 

He can feel Credence’s heart, holding him close enough that it echoes in his own chest. It beats bird-like behind his breastbone when they kiss, falling back into the push-pull swell of giving breath, and stealing it. His hands wind back into Credence’s hair, urging him impossibly closer; he traces along Credence’s bottom lip with his tongue and Credence moans when he takes it between his teeth, a sound that lodges itself in the mess behind the cell-bars of Graves’ ribs, where Credence’s words have started to gather, and grow:

 

 _Tell me again,_ he wants to say, _who I am to you, who am I, tell me._

“Let me stay with you,” Credence begs, his answer in the hitch of his breath, the pulse of his blood, surging unsteady against the skin of his neck when Graves kisses the sharp line of his jaw, beneath his ear, at his throat. And when he moans again, helplessly, low in his throat, it sounds so much like something else. So much like _again,_ so much like _please._

And _please_ meaning _hold me._ Meaning _I was missing this and I hardly knew,_ meaning _what would I have done without it, without you?_

_I never saw this coming but now I couldn’t imagine it another way,_ _and when did that start?_

And _will it ever stop,_ as Credence strokes at his hair in little uncertain passes, and Graves kisses his neck over and over, and weeps pathetically into the crook of his shoulder.

_Don’t let it stop, don’t stop, Credence—_

 

 

IV. QUIET ; INTIMATE  
  
***

 

In Graves’ bedroom dusk, the storm has begun to beat down heavy. He can hear the gust of rain drumming over the roof tiles. The sleeting wind whistling sweetly past the windowpanes. The catch in Credence’s voice when Graves tugs at his hair and says _lie down for me_ and _yes just like that_ and— _honey_ _._ Unthinking, his face going hot when Credence shivers beneath his hands.

 

“I'll stop,” Graves starts, fingers fumbling over half-laced trousers. "If you don't want _—_ "

 

“I do,” Credence answers, breathless, “I won't. Want you to stop, I mean, I, _oh—”_ And he groans, then, in the back of his throat, Graves’ hand slipping beneath the cut of his underclothes to palm at the length of him, rubbing at the slick head with the heel of his hand. His mouth goes slack, swollen where Graves has kissed him; Graves strokes him with a gentleness that's a softer kind of torture, until his cock is red and stiff and leaking, panting in broken, ragged bursts. They lie side-by-side, stretched out together with Graves’ hand between Credence’s thighs, Credence’s breath hot over Graves’ lips, hips bucking helplessly as he lets loose raw little whimpers and words like  _oh,_  and _God,_  and _oh, please._

“All right?” Graves manages to ask, entranced by the way Credence arches at the sound of his voice, the lines of his throat sharp and pale in the dark of the room.

 

“Yes,” says Credence, nearly slurring the word. “Oh God, please, Percy, I—”

 

“Steady,” Graves whispers, nose sweeping along the line of his jaw, voice low and rough against his ear. He licks at the shell, curving down to the lobe, teasing at it with his teeth, “I have you,” he says. “I have you.”

 

Credence shudders, humps a little into his hand, panting high in the back of his throat. “Percy,” he says again, weaker, higher, words coming like breakers flooding stone shores, clutching at Graves’ forearm like he’s afraid that Graves will let go. Will let go and leave him like this, begging, hard and wanting. “Oh God, oh God, Percy _please—”_

 

His body goes tense and rigid before he comes, the shocks rippling through him, spurting thick over Graves’ coarse fingers and coating the shallow dip of his belly. And Graves swears his eyes go snow-white, just for a moment, swears he feels the shadow shift and spread under the frame of their bodies, enveloping him, wrapping dark arms around him, _inside_ him—

 

Pleasure flares white-hot and sudden. When his vision clears he finds himself gasping, pinning Credence to the mattress with the weight of his own body, his face buried in the crook of Credence’s shoulder, his trousers stained across the front with wet warmth.

 

“Did you—” says Credence, breathy, curious.

 

Graves turns his head and kisses him quiet, his laughter low in his belly, his heart spilling over with something too big to name; Credence smothers a crooked smile against him in return, arms thrown round his neck, and outside thunder cracks and the lightning strikes, a separate kind of release, a different sort of storm.

_Dear Seraphina,_ Graves writes afterward, with Credence asleep next to him, dark head on his pillow. _Ten years from now, ask me of Norborough._

_I will tell you how I remember the rain._

 

 

V. CREDENCE, PART THREE  
  
***

 

He wakes too early, to stillness, and a gloom-gray sky. He slips out from between the blankets, quiet-like, leaving the Credence-shaped-space curled up on the other side of the bed, and tugs out the stool behind his writing desk to watch as the sun creeps sluggishly over the sea line. In the blackness behind the window he can see the blur of his reflection, warped a little in the thick glass; he stares, and blinks, and wonders—

 

Hadn’t Grindelwald known?

 

What he’d had, in the palm of his hand, what he had been playing with: this softened beast, shy smiles and defiant chin, wearing his heart on his sleeve, in his eyes, around his neck.

 

Graves feels, oddly enough, a strange sort of sympathy, then. The man who had worn his face will never know what it is like to wear Credence’s want. To hear Credence laugh, dancing left-footed and pink in the face. He will never see Credence cast out a spell, wand in hand, darkness and all, or feel him kiss, sweet and open-mouthed. He was given a miracle, and saw only a tool. He was given Credence, and saw only his shadow.

 

“I’m real,” says Graves softly, watching the dark smudge of his reflection parrot the words back at him. “I’m— sorry.”

 

From the nest of blankets Credence stirs, bleary-eyed and tousle-haired. Then sits up, swaying drowsily, half-dreaming, his voice small and thick with sleep, “Percy?”

 

“Go back to bed, Credence.”

 

“Mm.” But Credence gets up, instead, ambling over with one of the quilts wrapped around his shoulders, twining loose arms around Graves’ waist, burying his face in the nape of Graves’ neck. “Who're you talking to?”

 

“Just myself.”

 

Graves turns and slips his hand under the blanket, runs his palm over the warmth of Credence’s bare thigh; Credence smiles at the touch, slow, sluggish, and mumbles something else, incoherent. He tugs at his arm until Graves stands, and lets Credence lead him back to the bed, dragging him down until he can close arms around him properly, something coming loose in his chest as he does so, a long-clinging shelf of glacier-ice cracking, falling away, crumbling.

 

“Credence,” he says again, the name like a kiss, pressed into his hair.

 

But Credence is already asleep again, deep in unconscious thought with his calf hooked over Graves’ thigh, and his cheek nestled against Graves’ chest. And Graves follows him there, lulled by his warmth and his easy breath washing in and out, an echo of the ocean outside their window, foam-tipped and ever-turning.

 

And they dream.

 

 

EPILOGUE

***

 

There are two hundred and thirty nine people residing in tiny-twenties-Norborough, a sleepy shelter of cave and cliff and sea that sits very prettily on the coast of Maine, far away from Prohibition nightmares and big city pipe dreams, and among those two hundred and thirty nine everybodies there is exactly one ghost, who Graves introduced as his comrade-in-arms, and who everyone has collectively decided to call Credence.

 

He’s young, a bit scrawny, scarred like his veteran friend. And he’s strangely familiar, though no one can remember why. Louise swears she’s seen him in the bakery before, but the grocer thinks she’s blowing smoke. The deputy admits that there’s something odd about him, but can’t seem to place it. In any regard, the landlord has rearranged Graves’ lease, so whoever he is or isn’t is living up in that big empty house on the hill, which really isn’t so empty after all, anymore, and that’s that, sure and settled.

 

For the most part, they decide, they will leave Credence alone. And Credence will keep to himself in return— apart from the days he and Graves come down to town to pick up groceries, or to linger at chance holiday festivals, or to stop by town hall meetings.

 

Sometimes, just every once and a while, someone will catch sight of the shadow, flying free over the cliffside, the shoreline.

 

And sometimes, just every once and a while, they’ll crowd together in the streets and watch, and wonder if maybe up in that house on the hill, Graves and Credence are watching, too—

 

Rocky crags and wisps of black twining together, stretching out over the shore the way gulls do, stretching long-folded wings.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my roommate: i bet graves’ libido is low, he’s so much older  
> me, sweating: he has an obscurus fetish, lasts ten seconds, and comes in his pants
> 
> tbh i just want to say that men’s underwear in the 1920’s was probably the least sexy thing since scurvy, boxer/briefs had been introduced but apparently caught on really slow in the mainstream? so if you’d like to have some fun please [check](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/11/37/d4/1137d4fbf1d5f04e8ead2d44a0c0597c.jpg) [these](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/54/0e/e1/540ee1255cabcd41806b1d728d559414.jpg) [out](http://cf.collectorsweekly.com/uploads/2013/05/sporty-munsingwear.jpg) and then proceed to re-read the sex scene with those designs fresh in your mind
> 
> this has been incredibly cathartic to write— i didn’t really expect anyone to read it! when i look back at where i started writing this time last year, my heart feels so full. i’ve changed a lot as a writer, i never thought i’d be satisfied with myself stylistically, but here we are :)
> 
> to those who have stuck with me to this end, i’m sending you lots of love. new readers, hello and welcome, i feel lucky to have you. it’s been a wild year. i’m happy to end it with this fic.
> 
> have a wonderful december, see you in 2017 x
> 
>  **EDIT JAN 20TH 2017:** shoreline has a sequel now!! read broad-shouldered beasts [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9395591#main)

**Author's Note:**

> [find me on tumblr](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)


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